12,933. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,100

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,100

(chuck it right out the window)

Sometimes the things that are

the most fun to write about

weren't fun at all to live through.

Other times, looking back, I just

wonder how in the world I ever

got into the situations I'm telling.

They used to make diaries and

all that out to be frilly, silly,

girl things; but I always did

contend they were more valuable

than that. Were, in fact, historically

literate, if done right and if so

connected with events rightly.

That's how I went about it,

leaving out all that girly and

frivolous stuff. I can remember,

at about age 11, standing in

line at the local Shop-Rite and

seeing those check-out papers

and magazines they used to have

in the rack. One of them was

going on about the new 'youth

market.' Teens and such, with

disposable   -  small beans, but

still disposable  -  money, for junk.

The gist was an entire new industry

about to be born and cashed in on.

Like frilly diaries and all that

manufactured girl junk and Princess

Phones and rock n' roll LP's and

the rest. I looked at it after quickly

reading it, and just thought to

myself, 'They're crazy enough

to work this out.' And sure enough,

almost immediately, everything

began being marketed to 'kids' :

youth movement paragons. Next

thing you know, every other kid

is Ricky Nelson, Sandra Dee,

or the Beatles. And it did all

happen in  a wink.

-

In the long run, none of it mattered

at all, because it all ran down. The

whole idea of American commerce

has always been the 'next' thing;

more, more, more. It's an unending

quest for  a never-achievable

satisfaction. Like a chimera, the

closer you get, the farther off it all

is. I always tried making sure that

none of that happened to me. It was

the same desolate paradise everywhere

I went. Things were getting thrown

up every which way: one year it was

a sandy barren  or an unkempt woods,

and the next Summer it was a KMart,

or Caldor's or a Sears. Strip-malls,

tacky stores at an angle to the road

and all in  a row. When many of

the members of my family first

began relocating down to what is

now 'Brick,' there wasn't much

there  -  some seashore vacation

or second homes on low marshy

ground, and a few connecting

roads. You could still sense the

salt and the sea, the marsh and

all those boats and bays and

inlets. Now, nothing. It's like

solid ground, tons and tons built

over. I don' know how the Earth

even tolerates holding that stuff

up. And once again that more adds

value to something like the Pine

Barrens where, somehow and for

some lucky reason, it had all been

legislated to stop. Or so they said.

You can turn right on 206 by the

Carranza Monument sign and

get yourself over to interesting

old places like Jobstown and

the rest, and you may note that

there are influxes of seniors'

communities and other, very

gentle, intrusions into the fringes

of the Barrens. I'm not  real keen

on that, but it goes on. Old people

go to old people places.

-

I used to want to live to be a

hundred, just as a milestone. Now,

of course, I'd just welcome 71, and

it little matters. Jack Kerouac once

was recorded saying, 'Walking on

water wasn't built in a day.' That

sounds stupid as all get out but,

you know, it somehow all makes

sense and I understand it. Those

words are about the gift of life,

for each of us, and the powers we

have, of observation, watchfulness,

and personal discretion. That's a

real strong knot-of-a-fist to have to

take, and the strength of life, or

any value it may have, often stems

exactly from how we handle that

premise. I've been to my share now

of wakes and funerals, over the

years, and it's always seemed the

weakest of them were always the

ones wherein something from the

'Outside' had to be brought in; a

military honor guard, a retiring

of the flag, or something of that

nature. It was always melancholy,

and all it ended up showing was

how few more vibrant connections

the deceased had among the living.

They make a big deal out of the

honor guard, and the rigid ritual,

the refolding of the coffin flag, and

all the rest. No one knows what to do;

it's boring, and everyone just sits

silent as the tired routine, as boring

as its found, runs its course. I'd rather

the dead guy with five loud drinking

buddies, punching around each other

with tall tales and dumb banter. At

least you know that guy lived. 'Bury

me in my shades, boys,' as Shel

Silverstein put it.

-

All those veterans and WWII guys, it

was all sad. Going down by Fort Dix,

out that way somewhere, there's this

big military burial ground, like Arlington

National, in DC, but this one is Jersey's

own. General Doyle Military Cemetery.

I have kin there, family members and

friends. The cemetery part of it itself

is fairly boring; just acres of flat stones;

no memorial or markers or obelisks

or crypts and mausoleum. It's as rigidly 

formal and strictly laid out as any

military procession. There are weird

names down there too  -  Arnytown,

(with an N, not army) New Egypt. 

Part farmland still, part scrub, and

part just 'just out of the pinelands.'

I never really got into the military

ideas of lines and strict sequence 

and all, and I do kind of hold it 

against them that they enforce all

that stuff even in death. Screw the

regimentation; a dead guy should

rest easy, at ease, among trees and

shrubs and wild greenery, with the

rolling hills and all the amplitude of

nature, and life too. Heck if Death is 

for nothing else, it's for the living,

not the dead. They should chuck

that regimentation stuff right out

the window.